save only one sweet watcher, whose song closes not with the closing light-the wakeful nightingale. Dew already glistens on the shut flowers, almost mimicking the twinkling stars, as the moonbeams tremble in it. It is the hour of peace and calm thoughtfulness: the season, too, for love. The dance has ended on the green, but not yet have all the revellers retired to their homes; many, ay most of them, will be long abroad this May-day evening. By pairs and pairs down thegrove paths wandering blushing-smiling-whispering. But why should we seek to know the secrets of young hearts? Emily, our thoughts are with thee! The dream is past-we unclose our eyes-the morning maidens and the noonday revellers are gone. Guisers, and morris dancers, and foresters, the May-queen and her bright guard, are rolled back into the realm of fantasy, as though they had never been. Even the twilight lovers prove most unsubstantial. We breathe again in England in the nineteenth century, so May-day is no more. The homeliness and simplicity which now appear almost romantic, have yielded to a refinement and world-knowledge, which are the antithesis of romance. A truce with philosophizing; to which we feel ourselves rapidly tending. Are we not still in the green fields, by the woodside, on May-morn? and is not nature beautiful and glorious as of old? Sing not the birds as sweetly-bloom not the flowers as brightly-shines not the sun as lovingly upon earth-and is not the same all pervading spirit of poesy existent in every thing, sentient or senseless? They are, each and all, unaltered and unalterable, save by HIM who created them. Man alone has changed--it may be for the better, it may be for the worse. Yet, whilst we have the fields and flowers, the birds and sunshine, we will not uselessly repine for what has depaited, but thankfully enjoy what still remains; partaking thus the jubilee of spring, and keeping, not with quaint observance but tranquil soul-gladness, our happy MAY-DAY! Banks of the Yore. NIGHT. BY CAMILLA TOULMIN. It was an idle, dreamy hour, And so athwart a mortal brain A sprite replied with human speech. It was the Spirit of the gorgeous Night! The spirit's invocations. And thus ran Surely, when Night marches up from the east, The spirit's wings should be unfurl'd; With more tongues than there are sands, And books, to such as cannot read, A volume blank, whose high behest They neither seek nor find, Then far beyond the power of speech, "Once again the bond renew: With your thousand eyes of light?” Mount, mortal, on the undulating ray It is a gorgeous hall, where fair forms meet, We find, after a trial of many methods, that we learn to endure and achieve less by direct efforts than by putting ourselves under influences favourable to the state of mind we seek.-Life in the Sick Room. MISS BABBINGTON'S FORTUNE. BY MRS. JAMES GRAY. Miss Mary Babbington, the heroine of my story-which I think it just as well to commence, without preface or preamble-Miss Mary Babbington was the daughter of Mr. John Babbington, farmer and grazier, in the county of Wilts. She was an only child; but, though such was the case, and though Mr. Babbington was reckoned a careful and well-doing man, she did not happen to be either a beauty or an heiress. Do not infer from this, dear reader, that Miss Babbington was a fright, or that when Mr. Babbington was gathered to his fathers, beneath the old yew trees in the church-yard of Watervale, he left behind him a penniless orphan. I have said Miss Babbington was by no means beautiful, but she had a pair of gentle blue eyes, a tolerable set of features, ladylike manners, and a naturally kind heart-I call that, if not a feature, at least a great beautifier of the countenance, for it is the fountain from whence flow the sympathising looks and cheerful smiles that give a species of beauty to the plainest face; that she was not in an interesting state of poverty may be inferred from the fact, that she was enabled, after the winding up of her father's affairs, to sit down in a pretty cottage in her native village, with an income of one hundred a year. This is certainly no very large sum, but it was amply sufficient for all her simple wants; and she never complained of poverty, or seemed to think for a moment that she was poor. In her little cottage, then, with a single attendant, quiet and unobtrusive in all her ways and doings, Miss Babbington lived for full seven years; till from a blooming damsel of five-and-twenty she had passed into a serious young lady of thirtytwo. She had noiselessly pursued the even tenor of her way for those seven years; but she was not either unnoticed or neglected, for there was not a dwelling in Watervale where she was not welcome, from the house of the somewhat dignified rector to the cottage of his humblest parishioner. But she was so much of a fixture in her home, and so little changed since her father's death, that she came to be regarded as one of the dependencies of Watervale, as much as its steeple, or its pretty rivulet, or the oak that overshadowed the centre of its green. She was full of benevolence and gentle cheerfulness, relieving the wants of her humbler neighbours in an unostentatious way that was peculiarly her own; and always, by a tact that seemed intuitive, framing the manner of her charity according to the peculiar circumstances of the recipient; and she enjoyed, too, the occasional tea-parties and pic nics amongst her friends, though she never talked very much, or laughed very loudly. She was none of your fascinating enslavers, who conquer with a look and chain with a smile; but, if she was not passionately worshipped, she was at least universally esteemed and beloved. She had not been without her admirers either-admirers, I mean, who would willingly have transplanted her from her little cottage to other homes and more extensive spheres of action. But she seemed neither pleased nor angry at their addresses, gave a gentle but decided negative to the three or four proposals she received immediately after her father's death, and settled to all appearance into a premature old maid, or, more properly speaking, an old maid in embryo. But "when seven long years had come and gone," an event took place which set all Watervale on the qui vive, and seemed to create more interest in the mind of every other individual in the parish, than in that of the person principally concerned therein: Miss Babbington-so said the voice of rumour-had suddenly and unexpectedly come into a fortune! What the fortune in question might consist of, or whence it had sprung, were puzzles which the Watervale people could not readily solve; and in this state of ignorance they were doomed to remain for a mortal fortnight at least-inasmuch as Miss Babbington, by the report of her maid, Betsey Barlowe, was gone from home for that length of time; where, the said Betsey could not tell, though she believed it was farther off than London. But there was a man of law in the village, who was supposed to be in the secret, for Miss Babbington had called upon him the day before her departure, and ever since he had looked mysterious, so mysterious indeed, that the gossips, not being able to "pluck the heart out of his mystery," seemed almost disposed to pluck the heart out of his body for very vexation. Never was man so cross-questioned, so way-laid with ambushed inquiries, so badgered, and so besieged as Mr. Crawladder. "Why could not he tell what he knew?" said surely there could be no harm in wishing to hear of a neighbour's good luck." one; "Was the property Miss Babbington had got in land or money?" queried one, boldly coming to the point. "And what was it worth?" asked another, taking courage, and following up the blow. Mr. Crawladder only smiled more mysteriously than ever, and shrugged his shoulders, as if he were hugging the secret still closer; and remarked, "That it was a fine day at present, but not unlikely to rain before night." She arrived alone on Saturday night, and was set down from the stage-coach at the end of the lane wherein she resided. The first intimation the public had of her arrival was her appearance in church on the following day-clad in mourning it is true, but composed and undemonstrative as ever. There was no difference in the style of She had either her dress or her deportment. always worn garments of the best material and simplest fashion possible, and she did so still, She bore the congratulations of the friends who thronged round her with exemplary patience, and listened to all that was said and hinted with the same attention she would have given to any piece of ordinary gossip, wherein she was in no way concerned. But as nobody quite liked to inquire openly into her affairs, and as she seemed determined to say nothing about them herself, save in vague and general terms, the curiosity of the good people of Watervale remained still ungratified ; and it became daily more difficult to approach the subject in conversing with her, so completely had she returned to her old habits of life. They began to think it must be a dream, wherewith they had been self-deluded, and that her circumstances remained as unchanged as her manners. But it was no dream that a twenty pound note was found in the poor-box at Exeter; it was no dream of poor Alick Johnson, a small farmer in the neighbourhood, when he was reduced to extremity by the failure of his crops, and was threatened with a distress by his landlord, that help came from an invisible hand, and that his rent was paid, and a considerable balance left in his pocket, wherewith Mrs. Weston, the sickly widow of the blacksmith, to begin the world again; it was no dream of that her only son, who had enlisted in a fit of despair at the cruelty of some country beauty, was bought off, and returned, a wiser man, to labour once more at the anvil for that helpless mother's support. These things were realities; but if any one suggested that the unseen benefactor might be Miss Babbington, the majority repudiated the idea with scorn. She had never given less than half-a-guinea to the clothing fund, or the schools, or the soup shop, and now she gave no more. "She's close-close in every way, you may depend on it," said Mrs. Tims, the doctor's lady. "I never could have believed that Mary Babbington, born and bred amongst us as she has been, would have treated her old friends But thoroughbred gossips are not so easily repelled again the attack was renewed. Surely he might give them some little idea of the extent to which their friend, their dear and valued friend(more valuable now, as it seemed, than ever)was enriched. Was it hundreds-thousands- so." tens of thousands? Mr. Crawladder couldn't Now the fact was, Mary Babbington was just say, or wouldn't, as the baffled questioners re-treating them as she had done, from her youth up. marked, which came to the same thing. So they arrived at a conclusion of their own-reported that Miss Babbington had come into twenty thousand pounds at least, and that Mr. Crawladder was the most ill-natured man in the universe. So, perhaps, he was; but he had not informed them of the extent of Miss Babbington's acquisition, for one most excellent reason-he did not know it himself. Miss Babbington came home again; and, much to the disappointment of the neighbourhood, neither in a chaise and four, nor new private carriage. She had never been an egotist, never been accustomed to talk much of her own affairs; nor had they thought them worth inquiring into before. She mingled in their society just as she had done of old, and was not less willing than her wont to talk to the deaf or stupid, or listen to the prosy, to play country dances for a whole evening together, or to try her skill at back-gammon with the veriest bore that ever infested an evening party. But these things were no longer to be permitted, and she found herself received in a very different style to that to which she had been used. She was now to be the person of consequence in all their social arrangements, whether she wished it or not. "Oh, my dear Miss Babbington, do not sit in that dreadful draught, I beseech you." "Miss Babbington, do dance; it grieves me to the heart to see you tiring yourself at the piano." "Mary, my love!" (this from the Rector's lady, who had never consulted a parishioner in her life before,)" don't you think the school uniform could be improved? I do think green would look better than blue; but I wish for your opinion before I decide," and so forth. And, worse than all, having pedestaled Miss Babbington as an heiress, they next resolved to worship her as a beauty. I have said my heroine was by no means plain, and had she chosen to trick herself out in fashionable attire, to wreath her light soft hair with flowers, to bare her fair neck and arms, and to tinge her pale cheek with artificial roses, she might, even amongst strangers, have passed for a very pretty woman. But Mary had no genius for being a beauty; she had strong good sense; and feeling that her girlish days were past and over, she had no desire to disguise the fact, either from herself or others. So, disregarding all advice on the subject of dress, she remained constant to her morning wrapper of white dimity, her afternoon black silk, her straw bonnets, and her neat little caps; until Mrs. Tims remarked, "That really, for a quiet person, Mary Babbington was the most provoking and obstinate woman in Christendom!" was, as usual, escorted home by Betsey Barlowe and a lanthorn; and on the following day Captain Capstan, a casual visitor at the rectory, went on his way, and was seen no more. There was no post-office at Watervale, but in a market town, three or four miles off, there was one of considerable importance-inasmuch as it was the head-quarters of the letters addressed to some Trattles, milliner and dealer in general groceries. half-dozen villages around, and was kept by Mrs. Mrs. Trattles was indeed an awful personage, in her turkey-red cotton gown, and turban of black and amber gauze; and never in the twenty-four hours did she look so awful as when she dispensed with her own hand the letters and letter-bags to the gaping messengers who waited for them. These were of various sorts and sizes, from the bareheaded serving-wench, with "Missis's respects, and to see if there is any letters," to tall Jem Wilkins, who daily conveyed to their destination all communications addressed to the worthy inhabitants of Watervale. Jem was something of a favourite with the post-mistress, a distinction of which few could boast; Mrs. Trattles being more remarkable for a quick dispatch of business than for a gracious manner towards her customers. Jem Wilkins, however, was a favourite, and as such was occasionally indulged with a few minutes' exclusive conversation, or was made the subject of a grim joke whilst less privileged frequenters of the post-office stood aside and wondered. It was said, indeed-(but common report is said to be a common fabricator of untruths,)--that Mrs. Trattles would have had no unconquerable objection to transforming Jem Wilkins from a perambulating postman to a permanent postmaster. However, on the particular morning to which I refer, Mrs. Trattles called Jem a little aside, and, delivering his post-bag into his hands, remarked, with a most mysterious wink, that he had better take care of it this time if he never did before; for, if she wasn't mistaken, there was summut valuable" in it." Its not a double, nor its not a single with a big seal-its not money, and its not werses," said Mrs. Trattles; "but I rayther think its worth all of 'em put together, though its of no use to any body but the owner. I shan't tell you no more," continued the post-mistress "but leave you to put that and that together, and you may tell me to-morrow, if you think you've found out what I mean;" and with this peculiarly lucid explanation Mrs. Trattles gave Jem a patronising nod, and turned to her other clients. "Suppose a letter were sent off to Rio Janeiro next week, how long would it be before one could receive an answer?" Such was the question that Mary Babbington addressed to a respectable elderly man, whose appearance bespoke him a seaman, and who happened to sit next her during a visit to the rectory. She spoke in a low voice, so that her words were inaudible, except to the ear for which they were intended; but, low as the voice was, it trembled perceptibly--and there was a blush, a deeper blush than had arisen there for years on the cheek of the speaker. Mrs. Tims, whose son Miss Babbington had refused the week before, saw the blush, and remarked, somewhat spitefully to her next neighbour, that she really did believe Mary Babbington was falling in love with that odious Captain Capstan. There certainly seemed some reasonable ground of suspicion, for the conversation continued, though the voices sank to whispers; and the French windows being open, it was by-and-by perceived that the pair had glided out into the garden, and were conversing together at some little distance. Whening in her little garden, and evidently on the lookthey returned, though some close observers thought there were traces of tears on Mary's face, it was remarked that she looked happier than she had ever done within the memory of man. The evening closed, however, without any thing further transpiring; the party broke up; Miss Babbington There certainly was an odd-looking letter amongst the contents of the Watervale bag, written on such thin paper, that a practised eye might almost read it through from beginning to end, and bearing a foreign post-mark in addition to the English ones. And when Miss Babbington herself was found, contrary to her usual habit, wait out for Jem; when she stretched out her hand eagerly for the letter, and reddened like a rose, and turned hastily into the house, and sent out Betsey Barlowe with the postage, Jem did put that and that together, as Mrs. Trattles bade him. "I can't, for the life of me, make out what it's about," thought he; "but I'd lay sixpence that's the heiress, had descended, in what her neighbours the waluable letter the old woman meant. It was a chilly November evening; the wind came rushing in fitful gusts down the lane adjoining Mary Babbington's dwelling, and swept the withered leaves up to the very windows. But within there was light, and warmth, and comfort; the little parlour looked its very brightest and best; the kettle was singing on the bar; the sleek tortoise-shell cat dozed on the hearth-rug, looking as if she had donned her very best attire for the occasion; and Mary was there, simple in her dress as ever, but far more restless and unquiet than was her wont. There were tea things on the table, and preparations for such a meal as no single lady would be likely to spread for her own refreshment, but well calculated to warm the very heart of a hungry traveller, after a long, cold journey. It was evident that company was expected, and that the visitant, whoever it might be, had created no small sensation in that peaceful dwelling. Mary Babbington was alone; but was it strange that she paced the room with that agitated step? Was it strange that her ear was open to catch the slightest sound-that her eye turned perpetually to the watch that hung above the mantelpiece that a letter in her hand was referred to again and again, and that every nerve in her frame was wound up to a pitch of intense excitement? No, it was not strange; for this night was to decide her destiny, not as to outward circumstances-those were already arranged-but whether happiness or its reverse were to be hers while life should last. This night was to bring to her presence one whom, while his image had ever been shrined in her heart with all the vividness of a first impression, her bodily eyes had not looked on for sixteen long years-never since, with an effort for self-possession which seemed supernatural, she had checked her tears as she bade him farewell-she thought for ever! He was her cousin-her own dear cousin, Edward, the wild boy, who had scarcely left a trace on the memory of the public of Watervale, the orphan relative of Mr. Babbington, who, cherished under his uncle's roof from childhood, had suddenly gone to sea-nobody knew why or wherefore-save one who had treasured his memory with unfailing constancy through all those years of separation. In vain had he written her one desponding letter, releasing her from her vow, and telling her that poverty clung to him like a curse, and that though he would never forget her, he had no hope that he should ever be able to claim her as his bride. Her faith and affection had outlived these trials, and now he was coming back-coming at her own summons, poor as when he left her; but, if his letters were to be believed, loving her still with his old devotion, and even more. "What, she thought, "if the reality should belie her hopes and dreams-if he should be colder in manner, less pure in principle!" But she put the evil thought away, and blamed herself for the anxiety that could imagine such fearful things. The coach stopped at the very place where, a twelvemonth before, Miss Babbington, thought, so undignified a manner.-A traveller has alighted; he has passed the intervening space with the speed of light-he is in the house-in her arms! "Edmund!" "Mary!" There are no more words, at least for some minutes; and now she has lifted her tearful face from his shoulder, and ventures to look upon him. He is changed, she sees at once; but it is for the better. Never was the handsome, slender boy half as handsome, or half as dear, as the stalwart, sun-burnt man, whose clear, full voice, struggling with emotion, bids her take courage, and be of good cheer. Reader, are you desirous of learning further particulars respecting Mary Babbington's fortune? After all, the Watervale gossips got some idea of its extent, when they saw the compact little estate she purchased, and the pretty house that was speedily erected there. Let us tell the exact truth-the legacy she had inherited was just twelve thousand pounds, bequeathed to her by a very distant relative, with whom she had had no communication for years, and who left it to Mary, with the laudable purpose of disappointing a swarm of toad-eaters and legacy-hunters, who had haunted him during the latter part of his life. I scarcely dare say how soon she and Edward Babbington were married after their meeting, but I believe it was within a week. Remember, reader, that they had loved for sixteen years-that their union had been already delayed long enough, and that it might never have taken place at all but for the unexpected accession to Miss Babbington's fortune. |